by Ronie Kendig
Trace tensed. That cut their ability to see Téya. “Noodle—”
“No joy. I have no joy,” Nuala replied.
Trace balled his fists. “Téya—”
“I thought there were two of you,” a male voice crackled through the hidden mic in Téya’s fashion ring shaped like a giant flower.
“There were—she’s back at the hotel puking up her guts. Too much revelry in Paris last night. We were so excited about finally getting to talk with you.”
“So, you’re irresponsible.”
“Stay calm,” Trace intoned. “He’s testing you.”
“Actually, no. My friend isn’t a drinker. In fact, she’s allergic to alcohol. We ordered a virgin Long Island Iced Tea and the waiter screwed up the order. Now.” Téya’s tone went dark. “Anything else you want to know about us before you decide to cut the bull and talk to me?”
“Easy, easy,” Trace said. But Téya—this is why Téya was sitting out there and Annie in here. Téya knew how to take the bull by the horns. Besides, he was not going to sacrifice both of them if this was a trap.
“I’m sorry,” the man said.
The teens were finally clearing out.
“I have joy,” Nuala radioed.
Trace could breathe a little easier as Houston announced he had a good facial image and was running it through recognition software. “Start the stress analysis,” Trace said.
“Roger,” Houston said, activating a software program that would monitor the stress in Ballenger’s words so they could hopefully steer this conversation and prevent it from going very bad.
“So, why are you hiding?” Téya asked.
“You know about Misrata, yes?”
“Of course.”
“Well, my wife and child were killed in the bombing.”
Trace cringed at the words. Though it was accurate, it was also painful.
“Why didn’t that information ever make it into the official reports?”
“Who are you? I mean, I know you gave Hollister a name, but I think we both know it’s not your real name.”
Trace’s chest squeezed. “Noodle, stay on here.” He glanced to Annie. “Be ready.” This was going downhill already.
“What you need to know is that I’m trying to get behind the truth of what happened in Misrata.” Through the feed, Trace watched Téya lean forward at the table, sliding her salad plate to the side. “You want justice, don’t you, Mr. Ballenger?”
Nice. Put the guy on the defensive. Make him think she wasn’t buying the story.
Silence dropped on the conversation, and though Trace felt the tension knots tighten in his shoulders, he studied Téya. She didn’t look stressed, and the vocal analysis didn’t reveal stress.
“Should I—”
“No,” Trace said to Annie. “She can handle it.”
“If you wanted justice,” Téya continued, “why vanish? Why go into hiding?”
“Have you been shot at, Miss Ritter? Anyone ever tried to kill you? Is that why you’re using a false name?”
“How does he know that?” Annie’s voice pitched as she swiveled toward Trace.
“He doesn’t.” At least, Trace hoped he didn’t. But the readouts weren’t showing stress. “He’s still testing her.”
Beside him now, Annie covered her mouth. She turned to him. “Can we get to her fast enough, if…?”
She knew the answer to that. They were at least thirty to forty-five seconds away in a full sprint. Bullets could reach their targets in a second.
“I’m former military, so of course I’ve had someone shoot at me. And I’m sure they weren’t shooting to say hello. They were shooting to kill, so I have had someone try to kill me.” Téya remained unperturbed. “What can you tell us, Berg? Why did you hide? Where have you been? Or should I leave now so you can make up more questions to delay?”
Ballenger went silent. The bustle of the city droned on around them. She pushed to her feet.
“Wait.”
“That was a spike,” Houston said, pointing to a screen that had the stress analysis in thermal imaging. “She hit a nerve.”
“Okay, Téya,” Trace said quietly into the mic. “You hit a nerve. Tread carefully but keep going.” He watched as she resumed her seat, exuding confidence.
“I hid because after my family died in that warehouse, I went to Tripoli where I managed to lay low for a while. One night at the hostel I was staying at, someone attacked me. Gave me a wicked knot on the head and left me for dead—then burned the place down.”
“I’ll want to verify that.”
“I don’t care if you verify it,” Berg growled. “Everywhere I go, they’re there. They’re hunting me. I fled to Europe for a bigger hiding ground.”
“So that’s why we couldn’t find you.”
“Using my dead uncle’s name helped me stay hidden.”
Dropping back against her chair, Téya shoved her long brown hair from her face and sighed loudly. A sign she was still in control but frustrated. “This isn’t making sense, Berg.”
“I’m glad you see it that way.”
“Listen,” Téya said as she leaned forward again. “I went to your last-known address in Denver and got the crap beat out of me.”
“Denver?” Berg frowned. “I haven’t lived there since before…”
“Kellie sent us there.”
Berg let out a loud bark of a laugh. “Kellie Hollister?” He shook his head. “That’s your problem right there. She’s the cofounder of Hope of Mercy. You know that, right?”
“I do.”
“Do you also know that the only person I ever gave a forwarding address to was that very woman?” Ferocity deepened his words. “Funny how I give her my address and suddenly I’m attacked. Within two weeks of every communication with them, I was attacked. When I confronted her about it, she denied it. Said it wasn’t her. But who else could it be? Look, I don’t have all the answers, but I know a few things having lived inside a HOMe facility. Mercy Chandler—whom Hope of Mercy was named after—was having an affair.”
“With whom?”
Ballenger shook his head. “I never was able to find out. But I believe that man is the reason for Misrata. She starts sharing a bed with this man and suddenly HOMe is in all kinds of money and has sway in locations they couldn’t ever breach before. I believe”—he glanced around, swiping a hand over his face—“I believe they were hiding weapons in the buildings. Moving them at night.”
Thankfully, Téya didn’t respond. The weapons, they’d long known, were the initial reason Zulu had been sent into that mess in the first place. The DOD knew the weapons were illegal and wanted them destroyed. Zulu verified the weapons and the location. But how Ballenger knew about that…
“Ask why he believes that,” Trace prompted Téya.
On the monitor, he watched Téya look out over the road, quiet and thoughtful.
“If you don’t believe me—”
“It’s a lot to take in,” Téya said. “Weapons—why would you think weapons?”
“One night, I heard a noise outside the warehouse, and I went to investigate and saw these trucks. That night—it went up in flames.”
“That’s a lie,” Annie said.
Trace held up a hand.
“I’ll need to research what you’ve said. But… I really appreciate—”
BooOOOOooommm!!!
One minute Trace had a clear line of sight, the next second all he could see was smoke and fire.
Téya
Paris, France
27 May – 1500 Hours
Ears ringing, smoke choking her lungs, Téya lifted herself off the ground. A gritty taste filled her mouth as she mentally probed her body for injuries.
“Go,” a man’s gruff voice growled in her ear. “Get out of here!”
Téya blinked, recognizing Berg’s voice, thick with warning. Someone grabbed her. Hauled her to her feet. About to shake free, she snapped back to the present.
Berg’s e
yes seared with meaning. Dust and ash coated his dark hair and smeared his face with lines made dark by sweat. “They found me. Get out of here! Go now, or you’re dead.”
“Contact me later,” she said, gripping his arms.
With a nod, he thrust her away from the café.
Téya stumbled, her only thought to get back to the safety of her team and Trace. Wading through a quagmire of chaos, disorientation, shock-riddled tourists, and a glut of vehicles, Téya made her way south. Away from the café. Away from Berg.
Weaving around cars, she pressed a finger to her ear and felt a sticky warmth. She glanced at her finger and found blood. “Zulu, this is Zulu Two.”
Nothing. Only the ringing. The explosion must’ve damaged the coms piece. Which meant the explosion was close. Not so close that it blew off a limb, but… Enough that I could’ve been the target, too. She was running again, this time down Rue de Renard.
Going back to the team could draw the enemy.
Téya stopped cold, her body pumping adrenaline and heat through her in overdrive. Her gaze surfed between the tree limbs straight to the pristine length of the Saint-Jacques Tower. She wouldn’t bring trouble to the team. They’d had plenty already. She made a sharp left. Stumbled down Rue de Rivoli, in the opposite direction, praying Nuala saw her. Ducking, afraid her dirt-streaked and bloodied face might draw attention. Praying she’d let Trace know where she’d gone. They couldn’t be seen together. Not here.
Behind her, she heard crunching.
Téya glanced in a window of a shop, saw her own image—definitely bloodied and dirty—but focused behind her. Just as she looked, a shadow blurred out of view. Her heart kick-started. Someone was following her.
She lowered her head and started walking again. Just stay calm. Act calm. She had training. Quade had put them through Torture 105 with his training. You can handle this.
The soft padding of feet behind her spilled heat down her spine, the rush of adrenaline soaking her limbs. Fight or flight kicking in, she quickened her step, though she told herself not to. She scanned the road before her and decided on an alley up ahead. Make it there and she could make a run for it. Get around the corner and just sprint.
One… She passed a white super-compact vehicle.
Crunch.
Whoa. That sounded closer.
Two… She saw a black blur in the car window.
Forget three. Téya banked right, straight into the street. A car screeched to a stop. “Sorry,” she said lightly. Trying to keep the panic and awareness from her voice, she skipped around the car, narrowly avoided a second, then rushed up onto the sidewalk.
No more tire screeches or horns honking, so maybe whoever followed, wasn’t…
A flurry of French came from behind her.
Téya glanced back. Parisians could be so—
The man in black ducked.
Téya jerked around, terrified. Not only was he still following, but he’d closed the gap. She hurried her steps. Angled toward the building where she’d targeted the alley. Skipped a step—and a heartbeat.
Easy, easy, Trace would say.
But Trace hadn’t just survived a bombing. Wasn’t being chased by who-knows…
Téya felt the surge of adrenaline spike as the opening grew closer. She wouldn’t even count this time. She was just…
Téya threw herself in front of a crowd of people and dove into the alley. Darkness dropped like a blanket on her, but she sprinted forward anyway. In a hard run, she made it to the end of the alley in a matter of seconds. Only one route presented itself—left. She bounced off the wall and ran fast.
She wanted to curse when that juncture also ended, feeding her to the right. At least she had an opening. Then a left, that dumped into a small square. An exit to the right and left. Téya froze for a second, trying to work out her route. Figure out which way—
“Oh forget it!” she raced toward a small archway that veered to the left. She could smell the water, a strong, pungent odor in this city. She ran. Rounded a corner.
A cement wall slammed into her chest.
She bounced backward, her breath knocked out of her.
Coughing, Téya rolled, agony squirming through her as she fought for air. It was then she saw the booted feet. Followed the black pants up to a black shirt. Corded muscles. And a face of fury.
She hadn’t hit a wall.
The man who’d followed her hit her.
He grabbed and yanked her up off her feet.
Blinded by pain and groping for air, she struggled to think. Then oxygen flooded back. She swung her arm back then aimed for the side of his throat.
He blocked and nailed her with one of his own.
Again unable to breathe, she dropped to her knees, straining for air. Feeling her temples pound. She wobbled to her feet.
But the man shoved her forward.
Her head hit the wall. Bounced off. Stars sprinkled across her vision. Téya braced herself then threw her head backward.
But he deflected. Moved away.
She stumbled backward, her feet pedaling too fast. She flopped onto the ground. Anger lit through her. She’d been one man’s punching bag already this month. Not happening again. In that split second, Téya took in her surroundings. His position. She swung her legs to catch his.
He hopped back—and laughed.
Indignant, she flipped onto her feet.
His punch nailed her jaw.
She spun, gritting her teeth and tasting the blood his hit caused. His hits came again. And again. Driving her back…back…
Water!
She heard it now—the river. Heard the lapping against a wall or rocks. Smelled it. Felt the dampness. He was going to knock her into the water, no doubt hoping she was unconscious. She had to control this. Own it.
Téya dove to his right and straight into a roll. She came up and spun around.
His booted foot flew at her face.
Crack!
Téya fumbled her footing. Scrambled backward, not wanting to fall.
And he was on her. Forearm crushing her windpipe, he slammed her against the wall. Téya’s training flew out the window in the instant she knew he intended to kill her. Right here. Right now. This wasn’t a punishment. She fought for survival. Fought to live.
She grabbed onto his crushing arm and pried it back as hard as she could. She wouldn’t remove it. Just a little air. That’s all. Craning her neck for even the smallest particle of air, she met his gaze.
Wild. Fury. Singular focus.
Head down, his light brown hair shaded a face marked by rage. And a tattoo on his left cheekbone, just below his eye. Those eyes…roiling and untamed.
She struck with her left fist, aiming for his head.
Losing oxygen, limbs heavy, she knew her punch went soft.
But it angered him more. He shouldered in, pressing harder against her throat.
Téya whimpered. Hated herself for it. He would not defeat her!
He growled something, words that were unintelligible to her. French?
She met his gaze again. Churning brownish-green eyes.
He said something else. Then something more. Then, “Who are you?”
A siren wailed nearby.
Her attacker growled. Stepped back, a large fist around her throat, pinning her to the wall. Téya whimpered again, clawing at his hands to free herself.
He held up a phone. Aimed it at her. He pressed something to her face. “If you want your friend in the tower to live, I suggest you run.” He dropped the item, shoved her—though she had no room to give beneath his force—and sprinted off as the nee-eu nee-eu of a police siren roared past the opposite end of the alley.
Téya collapsed to the ground, coughing. Gasping and hauling in greedy breaths of air. By her hand, she saw a syringe. “If you want your friend to live…”
Nuala.
The syringe held a vial of amber-colored liquid.
Antidote.
Trace
Paris, Franc
e
27 May – 1520 Hours
“Where is Téya?!” Trace roared at Houston, who didn’t dare look up at him.
“I don’t know. She went the wrong way. I didn’t have surveillance equipment prepared for that!” Houston sounded like he was squealing.
“Why didn’t she come back here?” Arms wrapped around herself, Annie paced the small room they used for the recon location.
“Noodle,” Trace barked into the coms again. “Noodle, talk to me.” He snatched off the headset and threw it down.
“Dude, I told you—something happened with that explosion. We lost radio communications. Doesn’t make sense but we did.”
Trace started for the door. “I’m going to the tower!”
“But Téya—”
“She’s AWOL. King is the only one I can verify is still alive.”
He stepped out into the sun and his phone rang. Trace glanced at the caller ID as the door behind him opened.
“Trace, wait.” Annie came out of the safe house.
He didn’t recognize the number, but few people had it, so he answered. “Weston.”
“Trace,” Annie said from behind, her words colliding with the caller’s.
“Nuala’siintrouble.Gettohernow.Hepoisonedher.”
Trace froze. Blinked. The words untangled themselves. With an intake of breath, he lurched forward. Then turned back to Annie. “Go back. Help Houston clear out. Meet at the extraction point.”
Her face went white. A barely there shake of her head.
“If we don’t make it, just go. We’ll follow.”
Annie shook her head harder.
“Go, or our lives are on your head!”
She went back. Trace bolted across the street, through the square. He leaped over shrubs. Hustled down a sidewalk, almost toppling a baby carriage thing, and kept going. He threw himself through the opening to the tower. Hauled himself up the stairs two, sometimes three at a time. “Noodle!” he shouted. Looked up the spiraling steps but saw nothing.
Exhaustion and fear weighted his limbs, but he wasn’t stopping. He used the walls to pull himself faster. Rounding the last curve, he grabbed the wrought-iron rail. Propelled himself to the lookout.
Saw Nuala slumped to the side.
